


You Can Hear it in the Silence

by Espoir



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Deaf, Deaf!Sam Winchester, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Signing, Weechesters, deafness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espoir/pseuds/Espoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When the doctor finally turns to them with a furrowed brow and sad eyes that say the whole 'I'm so sorry Mr Winchester speech' without the guy having to even open his goddamned mouth, John fucking crumples into a chair like all the energy in him left in that one, shaky exhale.'</p><p>Sam suffers from permanent hearing loss after a bout of childhood measles. He might be deaf, but he's still Sam, still Dean's kid to look out for. The Winchesters deal, just like they do with everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Attempted sexual assault but nothing explicit. 
> 
> Also~
> 
> 1\. I am horribly British and find writing American-style ridiculously hard but try my best. Lemme know if I messed up here anywhere and made a fundamental mistake like putting 'football' instead of 'soccer' (it has been known to happen.)
> 
> 2\. I'm not deaf nor know anyone who is completely deaf, so this topic has been approached with a great deal of artistic license and hopefully a sufficient amount of respect. I appreciate the dialogue exchanges could not necessarily be communicated through ASL but it's how I imagine Sam and Dean would interpret each others signing.
> 
> 3\. Yes the title is Taylor Swift. God help me.

When the doctor finally turns to them with a furrowed brow and sad eyes that say the whole _I'm so sorry Mr Winchester speech_ without the guy having to even open his goddamned mouth, John fucking _crumples_ into a chair like all the energy in him left in that one, shaky exhale.

He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and doesn’t fucking say a word and Dean feels cold all over.

Somewhere, on the other side of the hospital, Sam is lying in bed alone, oblivious to the fact that the 'common complication' is, of course, as fucked up as it could possibly be.

Dean stares at the empty wall across the corridor so hard that his eyes water.

The odds were with them. They couldn't have gotten Sam to the hospital any faster, and yeah, it was terrifying, and yeah, Sam’s temperature was peaking at 104 and Dean was trying to hold him, this writhing, wheezing, wailing little kid in the backseat of the car, and his hands were shaking so _goddammned bad_ because Sam was never this upset, never cried this much when he was sick, but most kids recover, get through it and out the other side unscathed, but they're cursed with Winchester luck and it wasn't enough, even after everything-

The doc's still talking, spewing more horrific, dire warnings that Sam's brain's so fucked that they should expect all kinds of issues, problems with memory and concentration, problems with balance and coordination, learning difficulties, _epilepsy_ for fucks sake-

But Dean's still stuck on the first part of the whole spiel.

'The results were conclusive'. 'Extreme case'. 'Cochlea is completely destroyed'. 'Even implants won't offer much improvement'.

 

                                     'Total hearing loss.'

 

                                                'Nothing we can do.'

 

Dean let's himself cry for about half an hour.

He keeps quiet about it, glaring fiercely at the few nurses who try and approach him with Hershey bars or sodas like _that's going to fucking help Sam_ , and stays by his dad's chair. The silent tears sting sunburnt cheeks and dry instantly, tacky on his skin. He wants to curl up in a ball and never move again, but at the same time he feels restless, desperate to get out, leave Sam and Dad behind and just run, leave this crap far behind and run flat-out out onto the highway like he's got somewhere better to go.

A heavy fist of guilt at the thought settles in Dean's gut, and he feels sick.

When John finally gets up from the chair, eyes weirdly glazed and stumbling a little like he's drunk, he rests a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder and says, "Let's go see your brother."

Sam's asleep when they get there, exhausted from waking up that morning to his Dad and Dean's barely contained joy, and then not being able to hear a _damn thing_ anyone was saying to him. He'd cried. A lot. Loudly, like he was trying to hear himself, and it was only when one of the nurses had had the common sense to fish out a pen and notebook and Dean had scrawled 'ITS TEMPORARY, SAM. HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.' in a shaky hand because Sam was sobbing like he was _dying_ and Dean couldn't deal with Sam snuffling over a _cold_ let alone this-

He looks too pale and too small, swamped in the sheets of the adult bed 'cause they ran out of kiddies ones in this bumfuck of nowhere hospital.

It was his birthday the week before he got sick.

7 candles in a gas station chocolate chip muffin.

Dean thinks he's starting to understand what Dad means when he says that the world is a cruel place.

John sits by his youngest’s bed and reaches out to pick up Sam's hand, lax on top of the covers. His fingernail beds are still faintly blue, and the bones of his small wrist and hand seem impossibly fragile in John's huge hold, like a broken baby bird.

John starts to whisper apologies that Dean pretends he can't hear-

_I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough, I'm sorry I'm a terrible father, I'm so sorry I let you down, god help me, I'm so sorry baby-_

After a while, Dean can't tell anymore if he's talking to Sam or Mary.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sam is discharged from hospital 6 weeks later, he hasn't said a word since he first woke up and tried to talk. The doctors had attempted to persuade John to book a Sam in for rehabilitation, so he could be given an implant and be taught to read the signals from it. Rehabilitation meant settling down and legit IDs and official insurance, and yeah, that just wasn’t ever gonna happen. Even Dean had to admit that the idea of Sam only even gaining a 'sensation' of what hearing was like wasn't exactly a revelatory draw to stay in the area.

Either way, Sam didn't seem particularly fussed.

Though that wasn’t saying much, because Sam barely even made eye contact these days.

Dean had stocked up on as many leaflets and self-help guides at the hospital that he could get his hands on, and kept furtively checking the list of behaviours to watch out for in the brief seconds he let Sam out of his sight or when the kid finally got to sleep- _‘bedwetting’, ‘disturbed sleep’, ‘nightmares’, ‘moodiness or irritability’, ‘feeling dejected or hopeless’._

_‘Children who are hard of hearing often become noticeably ‘clingy’ and feel a great need to be near a loved one- for example, a child experiences severe anxiety when not with a parent. This behaviour can be expected to persist throughout adolescence, and the child is likely to be delayed in reaching levels of independence-’_

Dean stuffs that particular leaflet to the bottom of his duffel.

Over the next week he raids every thrift store they come across, until he finds what he’s looking for.

He dumps the enormous battered copy of the ASL visual dictionary on Sam’s bed, and though the kid is skeptical at first, flicking through it with a scrunched up nose, Dean catches him practicing the signs in the car over the next couple of weeks.

Nearly a decade on and they’re both fluent but the dictionary still lives in the trunk, another piece in the jigsaw of their lives.

 

* * *

 

 

People don’t like to talk about it much ‘cause it makes them seem harsh (and by people he is referring to every doctor, kid therapist and simpering schoolyard mom he’s ever met), but if Dean is being brutally honest with himself, having a deaf kid is fucking hard work.

Sam pretty much displays all the behaviours the leaflets warn them about at one point or another, temper tantrums, weeks of silence and refusing to sign, 2am trips to laundrettes to wash sheets, the horrific month of nightmares _every night_ when John said they were getting to old to share a bed- the whole shebang.

But it’s other things too. Sam wants a Guide Dog puppy (which surprises- oh yeah _no one_ , because Sam is the World’s Biggest Sap) to which John doesn’t even dignify a response to and to which Dean says _what the hell Sam you’re deaf not blind._

_But Deeeeeeeean if I had a dog I could walk myself to school and go out to shops and stuff. They’re not even that big, it could live on the backseat with me._

Even when he’s signing Dean can tell when Sam’s whining. His eyes are huge, pleading.

John is no way in hell going to allow it, but Dean takes him to a guide dog centre to see the pups anyway. Sam practically rolls around in the pen with the puppies squirming and squeaking all over him and licking his face and then Sam sneezes so hard his whole body shakes.

Yeah. Well, it’s not like it was gonna happen anyway.

Then there’s the fact that they were born and raised on John’s cassettes and Zepplin was practically their lullaby, and abruptly Sam just doesn’t _get_ that anymore. Dean cranks up the volume as loud as he can sometimes just because and Sam will sleep on, late evening sunlight on his lax face, completely oblivious.

Dean turns it down after a while, needless guilt heavy in his gut.

And then there’s that time when Sam insists on playing with the other kids on the block and _no Dean, god I’m nearly 13 I don’t need you hanging around anymore_ , and Dean is pissed okay, he spends his life looking after this kid don’t tell me what to do Sam, so he goes to the gas station and he’s gone 10 minutes, _10 minutes_ max but when he comes back Sam is sitting on his own in the drive, knees skinned and a blindfold tied tight round his eyes, fingers grappling uselessly at the knots at the back of his skull.

He’s crying as Dean cuts him out of it, crying as Dean pulls him into his arms, rocking him, signing _I’m sorry baby, I'm sorry, I’ll never leave you again, I’m so sorry,_  into his chest over and over again.

When Sam hits his teens, he starts taking over the explaining when curious cashiers or nosy kids ask questions, has a little business card he whips out that does it for him. He talks about it more to Dean, what it’s like, says stuff like, _it's not a tragedy anymore, it's my normal. I see things in a way that hearing people will never be able to._

And Dean loves him, god does he love him, but to him it’ll always be a tragedy.

 

* * *

  

Dean raps his knuckles against the side of the pool table in an offbeat, staccato rhythm. It's a habit he picked up from John, partly an unconscious tick, partly a method to the put the opponent off their game. It seems to work; the guy lining up to take his shot shoots Dean a filthy glare, and Dean takes a step back, raising his palms and quirking his lips in a sly grin. He stumbles a bit as he does so, yelping as he cracks inelegantly into the bare brick wall behind him, instantly laughing it off a little too loudly.

He may be playing up the whole 'drunk guy's an easy target' routine, but to be honest he's keen to be done with the game and on his way. There's something off about the whole place, something niggling at the back of his mind that's making it harder to concentrate than normal.

Dean's hustling location of choice for the evening is Joe's Bar, a grimy, dark building hunkered low between block of flats in the shadiest part of town. And that's shady by Winchester standards. Sam's expression when Dean had driven up had been almost comical in his disgust, but the truth of the matter was was that neither of them had seen a proper meal in four days, and with Sam gaining inches by the day he'd gotten noticeably thin in a way that makes Dean feel cold with guilt.

The guy on the other side of the table makes a violent play, sending the balls cracking into each other and skittering across the stained green felt. He pots 3 balls in one freaking move.

Dean's gut twists as the guy's friends roar, slapping him on the back and leering at Dean, mouths missing more than a few teeth, eyes assessing behind the veil of drunkeness. Dean has a sudden premonition that he isn't the only one playing a part in this game.

Cigarette smoke unfurls lazily across the table beneath the spot-lights, and the air, hot and heavy, is rank with the smell of sweated alcohol and greasy chips. It's just this side of too dark in the bar, dim and gloomy so that Dean can barely make out the expressions of the other men above the line of table lights.

His opponent leans casually on two fists onto the table, ducking his head to meet Dean's eye.

"Your turn son," he says, and there's something about the stone-cold sober glint in his eyes, the under-lying tone of menace in his words, that pulls Dean up short. He's way out of his depth here, playing against men who know the drill with no Dad to back him up and no Plan B in his pocket either. The odds are depressingly against him, one against six or seven at least, unless you counted Sam which would make it two against seven, and for some reason Dean never really did count Sam-

Sam.

Dean darts a look over at the dingy corner table Sam has been at the whole evening, reading some stupid text book, squinting down at it in the shitty light and-

Instant, painful _panic_ claws across Dean's chest because the table is freaking empty.

Dean drops the cue and abandons the game immediately leaving the money on the table- _what the fuck was he thinking bringing a fucking 15 year old kid in a place like this_ -

Ignoring the shouts and hollers behind him, he starts frantically searching the bar for Sam's dark mop of hair, trying to remember if he'd seen a bathroom and _goddammit_ Sam where the fuck is he?

Dean makes for the door, pushing past patrons as he goes, trying to squash the panic down, keep his head, Sam will have just gone out for some fresh air, just for a minute-

Someone gets to the door from the outside before he does and it bursts inwards, a man reeking of stale alcohol so strong Dean physically recoils. The guy slumps onto the door frame, raises a bottle to Dean and gives the people nearest him a bleary grin.

"There's s'a free whore goin' on the street if anyone wants s'one!" He yells triumphantly to the packed bar, and there's a collective howl of laughter from the drunken crowd.

Dean's insides turn to ice.

_Shit fuck no, please no, fuck fuck fuck-_

He shoves the man in the doorway roughly out of the way, ignored the shouts of protest, and falls out into the cold open air, instantly scanning the street, Sam's name caught in the back of his throat even though it's useless, worse than useless-

"SAM!" He yells into the eerie street-lit glow of the street.

Sirens are squawling tirelessly through the night and the couple who live above Joe's Bar are screaming at each other but Dean strains his ears anyway, eyes desperately scanning the empty street.

There, off at the far corner of the street where the road curves into shadow, a group of dark figures and the distant sounds of a fight.

Dean sets off at a run down the road, feet pounding the asphalt.

He barely dodges a car screeching round the bend coming the other way, just managing to veer around it at the last second, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even think, because the closer he gets the more he can see, and one of the figures is definitely Sam, lanky, freakishly tall Sam, still too skinny regardless, still _too damn small._

Sam's circled by a group of about five or six men, and while they aren't exactly fighting its clear they're taunting him, taking it in turns to reach in and jab Sam in the side, yank his hair or else shove him into the brick wall. Sam's fists are curled in front of him, and he's taking swings at whoever comes near him, but it's not enough; his aim is half-hearted, like he's already given up, and there are too many of them, not letting him get away-

They are all laughing.

As Dean approaches one guys comes up lightning quick behind Sam and shoves a hand up the back of Sam's shirt. Sam's entire body flinches in shock, and he tries to round on the guy behind him, but he locks Sam's arms behind him and shoves him to his knees.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Dean yells, and he speeds up, pounding across the final stretch of road and barrelling through their stupid fucking circle, smashing his fist into the face of the guy who's holding Sam, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Dean instantly grabs his brother by the arm, hauling him to his feet, and it sends alarm bells ringing in Dean's head when Sam appears to be worryingly weak, stumbling into Dean as soon as he's upright. Dean wants to check him for injuries but there isn't time, they need to get the fuck moving- now-

"We were just having a little fun, yeah brah?" The guy nearest them calls cheerily in a heavy, strange accent, blocking their path and giving Dean a sly grin that makes Dean's skin crawl. He must be freaking suicidal because Dean is practically _radiating_ fury, trembling with it, bloody fist by his side to prove it.

"Let us the fuck go," Dean hisses. The guy just laughs.

"Your slet didn't wanna play ball- we offered a fair deal for a dof moffie."

Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what half of this weirdly accented slang means, but he can guess it isn't anything good; how Sam is slumped against his side like its more than injuries weighing him down, the sick way these men are looking at them both like they're stripping them with their eyes, Dean might not have a GPA but he can figure it out, thank you very fucking much. He feels sick to his core and tightens his grip on Sam. Sam leans listlessly into him.

The guy in front of them bends down, hands on knees, and tries patronisingly to make eye contact with Sam.

"You're a fecked-up kont-kop, yeh?" He says it stupidly, slowly and loudly, and the men around them howl laughing.

Sam's dull gaze doesn't leave the sidewalk.

Dean's far gone past wanting to punch the living shit out of this guy.

He pulls his gun out of his jeans.

"For a start, my brother is _15_ you sick fuck, and secondly, he's _deaf_ not retarded- now are you going to get out of my fucking way or I'm gonna have to kneecap you all individually do I make myself clear?"

Dean's kinda proud of the way that comes out, steady and strong sounding, not a bit like the way he's feeling inside, all strung-up and hyped up adrenalin making his hands quiver because Sam Jesus Christ what might have happened if he hadn't-

"Deaf?" says the guy opposite them, and Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or actually shoot him because he looks almost _contrite._

There's muttered snatches of conversation that produces more laughter, almost disbelieving, and Dean is extremely fucking glad he can't understand. Sam's getting heavier at his side by the second, eyes still on the asphalt hidden beneath his bangs, and man Dean just wants to get out of here.

The circle breaks though and they let them go, a few catcalls and whistles following them up the darkened street. It's freezing now, their breath clouding thickly before them, Dean's feet numb in his boots, but he's shaking with burning anger. Now that the dangers averted, he can be properly pissed.

When they reach the Impala, Sam shifts his weight to the car, like the walk has exhausted him. His shoulders are hunched in the universal teenage code of 'leave me alone'. The fact that Sam's eyes are still downward, still refusing to meet Dean's, is just an extension of that code personalised for Sam, 'I don't want to talk.'

Yeah, well tough shit Sammy.

Dean shoves Sam roughly on the shoulder and gets into his eye-line, twisting slightly so the artificial glow of the street lamp isn't shadowed by his body and falls on his hands.

_A street corner Sam? Are you really that dumb?_

He signs angrily, emotions illustrated in his sharp, jerky gestures. Sam knows he's pissed.

Sam turns away, ducking his head further beneath the curtain of hair like he does when he doesn't want to continue a conversation. Normally when Sam gets like this, quiet, subdued, and a far away look in his eyes that Dean doesn't really want to think about too carefully, Dean knows to leave him be.

Not today though.

"Hey!" Dean says aloud, out of habit, and he shakes Sam by the shoulder, cupping Sam's jaw in his palm and forcing his brother to look at him.

"You hurt?" He doesn't need to sign. The light here's just good enough for Sam to read his lips, and even if it wasn't, Sam knows that it's the first thing Dean will ask.

Sam holds Dean's gaze for a second, dark eyes impossible to read, and then drops his gaze.

He shakes his head.

Dean breathes out harshly, didn't even realise he was holding his breath, and scrubs a hand roughly over his face.

"Okay, let's head back then."

Sam gets in the back instead of the passenger seat, and doesn’t make eye contact the whole drive home. 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s one of those days, days when Dean feels like he’s in some flashback 30s film they show at 3pm on Sundays, all grainy black and white, because it’s the heat of summer and fucking hot, and they’re in New Mexico which means dust in every crevice, bleaching the colour and life out of everything until the whole world is dull shades of yellow and shimmering heat-haze horizons.

Dean’s sitting in the cool shade off the back porch, place he and Sammy spend most of their time these days, except Sam’s at some dorky afterschool chemistry club so Dean’s here all on his ownsome-

Well. Not exactly.

Miranda is miles of honey skinned long legs and crunched blond curls and a wide, wide smile that crinkles the freckled skin around her eyes. She’s sweet and lovely but has a fierce obsession with Harleys and curses every other word and Dean thinks he’s a little in love.

She’s lounging on the step next to him, knee just touching his, and it’s pushing 93 degrees so Dean knows that by all accounts his can of grape soda _should_ be slick with condensation, slipping through his fingers, but he can’t help but feel the way his pulse kicks up a notch every time Miranda tucks her messy hair back isn’t the fault of the heat.

Shit, he really wants to impress this girl.

He makes a comment about the gym teacher or something and it’s not even that funny but Miranda laughs, loud and genuine, and nudges closer till her little finger touches Dean’s on the sun-warmed deck and Dean swears his heart stops.

Except then the phone rings, blares through the silence and it’s the school, Sam’s got into a fight with one of the other kids, Damian, and Dean knows that name, knows it’s the little jerk whose been bullying the shit out of Sam since he joined the school, but the Headmaster doesn’t care about that side of things and is saying ‘maybe this isn’t the right place for Samuel’ and dropping phrases like ‘special needs’ and Dean hangs up and goes to pick up his kid and gets his kid the hell out of there.

Dean doesn’t see Miranda again and he avoids grape soda too if he can help it.

 

* * *

 

There's only one time that Sam ever speaks, and that's when he's sleeping.

It's not often, hell, sometimes Dean goes months without hearing a peep out of him, but just sometimes, when the nights are colder for some reason and Sam says he feels a chill in his bones even though Dean promises the heating's up ( _for the last time Sam what do you take me for a liar?_ Yeah, well maybe, fuck you very much too), and he complains that his sheets are wrapped too tight around him and fusses and fusses until he's finally out for the count. Until Dean's finally rolling over, wanting sleep to take him too now that Sam's gone under.

Sometimes, Sam's quiet, even breaths hitch and stutter in his chest.

Dean's always instantly awake, hard wired from the age of 4 to be awake for Sammy's nightmares and he's never been able to kick the habit. Hand on his knife, he turns to face Sam, tries to assess how bad it will be tonight and _god_ please let it not be bad.

Sam's body tenses, cords of muscle in his neck and forearms straining, just visible in the dim glow of outside street lamps filtering through shitty curtains. He shifts on the sheets, makes this awful choked off whimper, and the nuzzles into his pillow like he's trying to hide, all fucking 6'5'' of him and god _Sammy._

Dean pulls his hand out from under the pillow, leaving his knife behind.

It's weird really, considering how long Dean mourned the loss of Sam's chirruping, curious quips, sarcastic insults that Sam himself didn't quite get but said them anyway because Dean did, heedless, reckless laugh that was so bright it was like the sun. He'd mourned for his brothers lost voice for years, still did sometimes, but now he can hardly bear to hear it.

Sam only ever says one thing- Dean's name.

He doesn't say it how any hearing person would. It's odd and twisted and sounds like it's being pushed out of him, like a vocal exhale through numbed lips. Sometimes, very occasionally, Sam almost gets it right, almost sounds like Dean imagines he would if Sam could still hear and speak and laugh and sing atrociously. Like an older, rougher version of the way Sam used to say Dean's name when he was little, all of six years old and hanging onto Dean's arm and every word, staring up at him with huge, awed, besotted eyes.

The thing is, with Dad gone and Ellen and Jo and Bobby too, some days Dean can't remember the last time anyone said his name aloud. He's got a glove box full of fake IDs, a new name in every town. He doesn't even give his real name to girls anymore because they've got to be careful, now more than ever, because it's just the two of them and the FB-god damned-I is on their tail.

If Dean's going to be really honest with himself, his name hasn't been the out-loud, single syllable in years; harsh and whip-crack fast from his father, drawn out and wheedling from little Sam.

Since Sam made it up, way back on some stifling hot motel porch in Southern Arizona, hands slick with sweat, 'Dean' has been in the shape of Sam's fingers, the flick of his hands, the barely suppressed grin playing on his face.

Sam's right hand, finger pointed, resting on his forehead, before bringing his hand down in a loose fist to touch his left hand, also a fist.

Sam had made it up himself, Dean's name-sign. A combination of the signs for _brother_ and _protect._

Most of the time these days Sam just tapped Dean on the arm for his attention, made a rough D with his hands when time was short, rolled his eyes in a way that Dean could freaking hear the exasperated _seriously Dean_? But every now and then, in the semi-dark of the Impala on some other endless road, he'd use the sign he'd invented for Dean's name, eyes sliding across to look at Dean, smiling like he was 10 again, and Dean's chest would go tight as all fuck.

The sign had become his name.

The vocal version was meaningless with no one left who mattered to say it.

Anyway, Dean didn't particularly want to be associated with the pained, anguished noise that escaped from Sam's lips when he was trapped unconscious in the dark recesses of his mind, thank you very much.

He fucking hates that noise. Can't stand to hear it (because it reminds him what he's missing), can't stand to be in the same _room_ for fuck's sake, but he knows that Sam can't get out of it on his own. So Dean rolls wearily out of bed, fighting with the sheets as he goes, and he crouches next to his brother in the dark foot of space between the beds, resting his splayed hands on Sam's heaving chest. Presses them lightly, releasing, then pressing again, signing _breathe, breathe, breathe_ over and over.

Sam shifts restlessly, whimpering again, and he says "Dean", and it's almost clear, almost sound-perfect, and Dean feels even colder, has to wake Sam the fuck up _now-_

He curls Sam's white-knuckled fingers beneath his, pries them away from where they're gripping the sheets and pulls them to his chest under his hands. Crosses his arms just slightly, flexes his fingers so that Sam's curl beneath his, echoing the movement.

Dean's sign for Sam. _Little bear._

He doesn't use it often, kind of embarrassed his 10 year old self even thought to make up something as sentimentally bullshit as that, but at the time Sam had been glum that the other kids at the deaf centre all had name signs and he didn't, so this was what Dean came up with. He felt kinda stupid- maybe a lot stupid- but Sam had looked positively thrilled, eyes all lit up with those fucking dimples, _Jesus_ (forget psychic powers they've got to be Sam's secret weapon) and he'd flung his arms round Dean's middle and refused to let go.

When Dean does use it though, it's at times like these. When Sam's far, far away from him and he knows that shaking him manfully by the shoulder is about as useful as shouting his name in his ear.

Sam only ever comes back slowly, till Dean's knees start to scream in protest on the barely carpeted floors, hand cramping from repeatedly signing at the awkward angle, but he always comes back.

Dean feels him wake before Sam's eyes open. His chest shudders, breath hitching in his throat like he's in pain, and the first thing he does is grip Dean's hands.

Dean let's him, sits in the dark holding Sam's hands because you know what fuck you world, fuck you Dad and your judgemental sidelong looks, fuck everything, because they have a pretty shitty time of it and if Dean can help his deaf little brother by holding his hands then he's damn well going to do it.

After a while Sam shifts, makes a small unhappy noise that is all Dean needs to know Sam's not properly awake yet, if he's allowing himself to be vocal. Dean rubs his thumb over the back of Sam's cold, clammy hand, wills him to wake up properly.

Sam's eyes blink blearily open, staring up at the ceiling and he instantly flinches, closes them again, and fuck Dean's heart fucking drops because it was one of _those dreams._

He pries one hand free from Sam's painful tight grip to turn on the bedside light.

Sam looks awful. His skin's an unhealthy pale like he's lost too much blood, and though he's been out for the count for a good 6 hours, dark circles lurk under his eyes. His lip is bleeding where he's chewed on it in his sleep and he kinda looks like he wants to cry, but he meets Dean's gaze anyway, gives him a pitiful half smile and _aw hell Sammy._

"Hey," Dean says, smiling back. "You with me?"

Sam nods tiredly, pulls his hands away from Dean's like Dean's the needy one who initiated hand-holding or some shit (Dean is definitely the needy one) and brings them up to half-heartedly sign.

_Talking dream?_

Dean nods.

_Your name again?_

Dean laughs half-heartedly, _you harbouring a crush there Sammy? Something you want to tell me?_ He signs back.

Sam wrinkles up his nose, flips Dean off.

He looks like a squashed puppy, like one of those baby bulldogs that used to make Sam cry with laughter every-time he saw one for no determinable reason ( _"_ _it's like a dog- but with wrinkles?! How weird is that Dean? Like it ran into a brick wall face-first or something!"_ ) Yeah, Dean's got a freaky kid on his hands here.

Not like he didn't know that already.

Dean grins again, and then shifts back up to sit on his bed because fucking ow his knees were really not having anymore of that shit.

 _Wanna talk about it?_ He offers, really, really hoping Sam says no.

Emotion flickers over Sam's face- pain, fear, guilt (and yeah, Dean knows what they look like cause he's pretty damn familiar with all three of them). He chews on his bloody lip, and doesn't meet Dean's eye, shakes his head.

 _Don't worry about it. Sorry I woke you,_  he signs, smiles ruefully.

Dean lets out a shallow breath.

 _Okay, feel better champ. Lets get back to sleep,_ and he claps Sam on the shoulder.

The light goes out and Sam’s breaths even out and Dean doesn’t go back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive response to this, it means so much <3
> 
> A coupla notes:
> 
> 1\. Sam is bi in this. I don't know, personally it feels pretty natural to me.
> 
> 2\. For anyone reading between the lines on the Sam/Dean wincest front, particularly in the last section, I'll refer to the succinct way in which one of my all-time fave Spn writers prefaced her masterpost- 'It is, to put it simply, gen. To put it more honestly, it's as fucked up as I see it in canon and not a bit more or less. You can read into it as much or as little as you like.' (In other words Shangrilada just *gets* it and you should all go read her stuff http://shangrilada.livejournal.com/7345.html )
> 
> 3\. I'm not ready to say goodbye to this verse but am dealing with a bit of the ol' writers' block at the minute. So prompts would be gratefully received if anyone has any!

Arguing with someone who’s deaf is hard and frustrating and kinda surreal but mostly ten billion sorts of horrible.

Dean would know.

It starts off pretty much how it always does; for someone who doesn't talk Sam is _incredibly_ good at being an annoying little shit sometimes.

They've been holed up in some depressing as fuck, nowhere town for the past fortnight hunting down a poltergeist that only likes to turn up wherever they're not, and Sam's been huffy and quiet and sulky for the past month and Dean's sick of it, if he's going to be brutally honest, and there's only the one bar in town and fuck it Dean _needs a drink_ for Christ's sake.

But when he hauls ass off the couch and shrugs on his jacket, spinning the keys to the Impala by the scuffed-to-hell Jurassic Park key-ring Sam bought Dean when he was 11, Sam gets up too and things go down hill from there pretty damn quickly.

Sam tells Dean he can't _drive to the bar, not unless you're not drinking, and anyway, we're still on a case Dean what the fuck are you thinking?_ And even though it's all with his hands, there’s that just-this-side of cruel glare in his eyes, a slight sneer in his upper-lip, and Dean can freaking _hear_ the condescension and, god, it makes him see red for no damn reason at all.

And then they're arguing, over not just Dean going for a drink but every tiny thing they've ever done to piss each other off in the past year and a half, which, heh, who knew, turns out to be quite a bit. It's all bull-crap, spiteful and childish and Dean's getting steadily more and more angry but that's okay, he's more than happy to have this dumb little spat because it means they're not talking about the _other thing_ , the damn elephant in the room that they've been dragging round since Wyoming-

Sam literally throws his hands up in the air at something Dean's said (he already can't remember) and turns away and pinches the bridge of his nose so tightly his fingers go white. Dean feels a sick twist of pride that he's actually managed to annoy him this much, and then Sam turns to him with this defeated look in his eyes and signs-

 _You're not taking the car_. _Not if you're drinking_. _I_ _’ll drive you myself if you_ _’re that fucking desperate for alcohol._

And wow, they’re back to square one.

 _Fuck you, I_ _’m not a child. I am able to look after myself, hard as that might be for you to imagine._

Dean knows that one will hit- Sam hates any implication that he’s incapable in any respect- and it does. The defeated look is gone and Sam's back to being pissed just like that.

He breathes out through his nose and drags a hand through his hair brutally enough to hurt. Then he closes his eyes and signs-

_Sometimes I wonder why the fuck I'm here._

His hands are slow but sloppy, shaking with renewed anger, but Dean's been reading Sam's signs since they were both in single digits thank you very much, so he gets the gist.

That does call Dean up short for a second, and he stands, trying to think off a cutting comeback because _how dare he_ , till actually, no, _fuck it_ , he thinks recklessly and just goes for it-

_You're here because I fucking sold my soul for you, you ungrateful shit._

Dean is fairly sure they could write their own freaking sign book with the number of expletive hand-signals they've come up with over the years. He doesn't think they'd make sense to any other signer, but that's kinda the point. It's their own private language, Sam'n'Dean chat time with no one around in the whole goddamned world to eavesdrop or pick up on their plans or in-jokes as old as the freaking hills that no-one would get anyway.

Except Dean isn't really in the sharing, caring reminiscing mood right now, because Sam is doubting the importance, the _necessity_ , of his existence and Jesus, Dean gets pissed with him okay, it happens, but if Sam was going for the ultimate low blow with that he damn well succeeded because Dean thought they'd got past this little self-loathing, existential crisis phase when Sam was 15 for fuck’s sake-

 _Yeah, and what good did that do you?_ Sam is saying because he’s a dick like that, _what good has it done anyone?_

And that's just swell isn’t it, because they've gone a whole month without arguing about Dean's deal and here they are, Sam glassy eyed and tight mouthed and desperately furious, and Dean angry right back at him except suddenly not really, more guilty and fucked up and terrified because, hey, you know what, he really isn't all that keen on the idea of going to Hell either, and would be much happier if Sam stopped fucking trying to bring it up at every opportunity-

_Don't start that sentimental bull-crap again Sam. No-one gives a shit about your self-esteem issues._

Sam's face falls a fraction, and Dean knows he's gone too far.

Even though that's the biggest freaking lie Dean's ever come up with.

Because they both know that really, Hell-doomed aside and all, Dean's got the longer end of the stick here, because Sam is going to have to live with knowing that he's the reason his brother is suffering eternal torment (Jesus _fuck_ ) and yeah, if their situations were reversed Dean would be well within his rights to be as pissed and upset as Sam is.

Dean swallows, throat clicking, and steadfastly doesn’t look at Sam’s face when he signs again.

_I'm going whether you like it or not. You should come too - a drink might stop you acting like such a bitch._

He can feel Sam staring at him as goes for the door, and pointedly refuses to acknowledge it. When he shoves out into the clammy darkness though, he hears the door close a fraction too late behind him, and hey, Sam's finally seen some sense.

Except Sam's got that steely expression on his face when he climbs into the passenger seat, the one that says _you're being a child but for your own good I'm not going to let you go off on your own_ , the snooty superior one Dean hates.

They ride in silence to the bar (or well, Dean does, because he guesses if you wanted to be literal about it Sam is always in silence) and Sam doesn’t make eye contact when Dean orders himself three tequilas and Sam a fancy-ass girly cocktail just because.

Dean tends to drink more when he’s pissed and on edge, and he’s not the type of guy to break tradition.

Three hours later it's barely midnight and he’s leaning the fuck all over Sam at the bar, the argument pretty much forgotten in the empty glasses littered around them, the beginnings of a smile curling at the corner of Sam’s mouth with each shitty joke Dean makes up on the spot. Dean feels warm and languid and forgiving and absolutely, definitely not thinking about Hell.

There’s a petite red head in a tight green top making eyes at them from over by a booth and Dean winks obviously at her. She rolls her eyes and tilts her chin, indicating at Sam and then smiling into her glass.

Dean whistles lowly, “Alright Sammy-boy, you’ve gotta admirer.”

Sam frowns at him, looking faintly bemused. _Your enunciation is shit when you_ _’re pissed._

“Eh, fuck off.” Dean mumbles and pushes round to the other side of Sam so his back is to the girl and he can sign freely.

 _2 o_ _’clock, red hair. Definitely interested in you._

Sam glances over Dean’s shoulder. Shrugs.

Dean gapes. _I know you have a thing for blondes but she is not_ – Dean shrugs pointedly.

 _It_ _’s not worth it Dean,_ Sam smiles, makes eye contact with the bartender and indicates to his water glass for another two. It dawns on Dean that Sam is considerably less drunk than him.

It also dawns on Dean that he hasn’t been aware of Sammy hooking up with someone, female or male, in… well forever.

 _I can tell from the way she was eyeing you up she_ _’d make it worth it,_ he signs or at least tries to get across something along those lines, and wiggles his eyebrows for added effect.

Sam scoffs, shakes his head. _Be my guest if you_ _’re interested_.

But no, Dean’s not taking that crap attempt at diversion- Sam has been moody for weeks, maybe a quick fuck is just what he needs? Usually sorts Dean right out.

 _Sam you_ _’ve got to be crazy not to go for that- she_ _’s smoking hot, obviously available and interested in you. What are the chances?_

Sam’s smile tightens a little. _I_ _’m fine Dean._

Dean scoffs. _No you_ _’re not man. Neither am I. We never are if we_ _’re being honest, but you definitely would be_ more _fine if you went for that. Might loosen you up a little. You should go for it Sammy._

 _And you should drop this,_ Sam signs, and he’s glancing to the door, looking on edge now. Dean frowns. The room is spinning a little now but he’s known Sam since the dawn of time okay, Dean barely remembers being 4 and below, his Beginning was Sam and he thinks his End will be too at this rate, and god damn does he _know_ when something is off with the kid.

He prods Sam hard in the shoulder. _Why? What_ _’s bugging you?_ _Girls not doing it for you this month?_ Dean rarely makes a dig at Sam’s sexuality, has spent most of his life fucking punching the shit out of the son-of-bitches who do, but hey he’s getting desperate at this point.

Sam fixes Dean with a steely look.

Then he sighs, _she_ _’s not going to want me when she gets close Dean. Not when she realises I_ _’m deaf._

Dean smiles his sleaziest grin. _I_ _’m pretty sure you ain_ _’t gonna need hearing for what she wants to do to you-_

 _Dean, shut up._ His signs are getting smaller, tighter, a sure sign he’s not comfortable with this conversation. _I can_ _’t hear, can_ _’t speak- she won_ _’t be interested. It_ _’s fine._

Except it’s really not fine.

 _You got with Jessica,_ Dean points out, because it’s okay to talk about Jess these days, _she was pretty damn hot and didn_ _’t care._

 _Yeah, and she_ _’s the **only** one who didn_ _’t._ Sam looks tired but Dean isn’t reading social cues brilliantly right now so he ignores that.

Dean pouts. _That_ _’s shit. Lori Sorensen in middle school- you wouldn_ _’t shut up about her._ He can’t be bothered to finger spell her name so just goes for the universal ‘big boob’ gesture. He knows Sam will get it.

Sam smiles. It’s not a happy smile. _I made it up. I don_ _’t think she even knew my name._

Huh. Dean didn’t know that. He’d been proud for weeks when 12 year old Sammy had found himself a little girlfriend. Told practically everyone he spoke to- look at his kid, fucked by an illness he didn’t deserve, and stealing hearts an.

 _You definitely hooked up with Aaron Daniels though,_ he insists, _I nearly shot him because of it._

Sam snorts and it’s a harsh, ugly sound. _We made out for 5 minutes tops. He said he didn_ _’t want to go further with a guy who_ _‘couldn_ _’t say no_ _’. I think he thought deafness was catching._

Dean frowns. _Yeah well I knew I had good reason to nearly shoot him. Jamie from Michigan was alright though?_ Dean had liked that guy, he’d had a broad smile and great taste in bikes.

Sam sighed. _Made that up too. Wanted to see if you_ _’d have the same reaction to me getting with a guy or whether it was just Aaron._

Dean is almost offended but he’s a bit caught up in the fact that all of Sam’s previous hook-ups appear to have _not_ been hook-ups.

 _Sarah Blake?_ he tries. Sam’s doe-eyed prom date had been all over him, had even learnt a smattering of ASL.

 _Mostly pity,_ Sam’s smile is twisted now. _She held my hand and that was as far as that went._

 _There were people at Stanford though right, before Jess? There must have been._ Dean’s feeling oddly light-headed.

Sam doesn’t meet his eye, scrubs a hand through his hair before answering. _There was only Jess. There has only ever been Jess. People pity or fear me Dean because they don_ _’t understand, they don_ _’t want to sleep with me, they don_ _’t want to love me or even learn to love me. It_ _’s just fact. And it_ _’s fine._

That… is quite possibly the most tragic thing Dean has ever heard.

 _Shut the fuck up I love you,_ Dean signs, unthinking, and then follows it up straight away with-

_I can'_ _t believe you'_ _re making me say this shit. God you suck._

Sam looks at him with an expression Dean isn’t sober enough to read and then suddenly starts to laugh; it’s quiet, just as it always is, but it’s genuine and his eyes crease and cheeks dimple and Dean forgets about the argument, forgets about the red head because suddenly everything is okay again.

 

* * *

 

 

 They're in Southern California, in some back-water town outside San Diego and it's hot _so freaking hot_ that the asphalt is sticky under their sneakers, but the AC is bust in the motel room, the fans doing little more than vaguely wafting warm air around the room, so they decide to go out.

Most new places they come across, the first thing 10 year-old Sam wants to do is check out the park. He can't be shoved in front of cartoons anymore ( _I'm not a baby Dean_ but he's got that bitchy-whiny face on that, hate to break it to ya Sammy-boy, is about as babyish as it gets) so Dean is increasingly having to abandon the _Simpsons_ and Dad's extra-training he's making him do lately, and let Sam drag him out somewhere.

(The extra-training is because Sam's just about old enough to be left on his own now, and Dean's just about old enough to be helping on hunts. John's making Dean run further, shoot better and train harder, and though he hasn't said anything directly, they all know why.)

Stepping outside is like walking into a solid wall of heat. Dean can feel sweat slicking his back and upper lip in seconds and he scowls, makes sure that Sam sees, because this _sucks_. Sam just pokes him hard in the ribs.

 _Get used to it, wimp._ Sam signs, and 'wimp' could be anything from 'pussy' to 'coward' 'cause it's all the same sign, but Dean's pretty good at assessing Sam's intended choice.

He flips him off and shoves Sam off the curb and Sam laughs out-loud, because Dean only recently taught him the finer arts of cussing and Sam can't get enough of it, of being old enough to be with the cool kids, to have a secret behind Dad's back. It's kind of adorable.

He's not really old enough, Dean knows that, and Dad will be pissed when he finds out, but at the end of the day Dean's the one who learnt to sign and the one who bothers to give Sam the time of day and the one whose _here_ and Dad just _isn't_ , so that's really the end of that in Dean's book.

They don't find a nice, apple-pie park with moms and strollers and ice cream vans. They're not in the right kind of neighbourhood.

What they do find is a dusty, disused car-park round the back of a garage, where a crowd of bare-footed, dark-haired kids around their age are playing soccer, laughing and jeering and hollering at each other in quick-fire Spanish that Dean doesn't have a hope of understanding. Sam grins, tugs on Dean's arm, points as though Dean, who heard the racket they're making from two blocks back for god's sake, might not have noticed.

 _Want to join in?_ Sam signs, smiling up at Dean like the dumb kid

Dean is on edge already. They don't do shit like this; they keep their heads down and themselves to themselves, the patented Winchester Way, and it's exactly what Dad would want them to do now.

Except-

Except they've got a whole afternoon to kill and Sam hasn't even bothered to wait for Dean's answer, is already jogging across the road.

At that moment the battered ball skids out of the yard towards him, and Sam doesn't falter, kicks it ahead of him and keeps on jogging, the ball at his feet.

One of the boys, shirtless and nut-brown, baseball cap on back to front, shouts to him, but Sam (obviously) doesn't look up, and Dean doesn't understand what the kid's saying and yeah, Dean's not sure about this at all, and he sets off following his brother.

But Sam gets to the yard and passes the ball back to the Baseball Cap Guy and looks up at them with this huge dorky grin on his face, and gestures to himself and then the ball and you don't exactly need sign language to figure that out.

A girl with her hair in pink, bejewelled elastics, pipes up "What's your name?" in accented English and Sam sees the question directed at him and shrugs, waving to his ears and screwing up his face. Universal sign for _I can't hear a fucking thing._

"Él es sordo?" the baseball-cap boy offers, and a couple of kids look at Sam a little more intently, but then ball-boy kicks it to Sam and Sam passes it back and they're back to playing.

It's pretty obvious he's with Sam, so the kids don't bother when Dean sits on the blistering hot bonnet of a banged up car in the yard and watches the game. Sam is pretty damn good at soccer, good enough to have been on the junior team in his last school and good enough now that the local kids quickly stop avoiding passing to him or sending easy shots his way and start playing as hard and dirty as they normally would.

Sam goes sprawling in the dust more than a couple of times, skins his knee on one occasion, but he's back on his feet in seconds, failing miserably at looking mock-offended because he's grinning from ear to ear. The throng of girls on the edge cackle every time he does but they're also watching him and whispering to each other and Sam's oblivious, because the Baseball cap kid is miming being in goal and Sam nods, getting it straight away because he always plays in goal, he's _awesome in goal_ (" _You should come to a game sometime Dad" "Sure Sam. Next time"_ Dad has yet to go to a game. Dean has yet to miss one.) and true to form he saves again and again, skidding across the dirt with bloodied knuckled hands and his team is cheering, hi-5ing Sam every damn time and Sam looks around, puts a hand to his eyes against the sun and finds Dean on the car bonnet and grins at him like-

Well, this dust is a bitch getting in Dean's eyes like it is.

There's a stupid bubble of feeling in his gut, something like a mixture of pride and- horribly, embarrassingly- inexplicable affection. Because here's Sam- the only deaf kid Dean knows who point blank refuses to let the fact he doesn't speak stop him from _ever fucking shutting up,_ born a geek and destined to die one, perpetually over-serving himself mixing-bowl-sized potions of Lucky Charms, keeping Dean up at night to re-enact through signing and a hilarious version of charades the plots of movies that Dean _watched with_ him for Christ's sake, smiling at every cashier and motel clerk likes he's as happy as a kid could be, and then going right back to the room to stich up Dad's leg because Dean's hands are shaking too much and squeezing Dean's hand in the car a week later and giving him this wide-eyed look that says _it's okay Dean, don't beat yourself up about it, you're still awesome-_

And yeah. Damn. Dean loves this kid.

Their shadows get longer and longer as the afternoon rolls into dusk, the unbearable heat cooling with a heavenly night-time breeze that makes the boys shrug back on their tshirts. Dean can feel the tops of his ears throbbing, knows they're sun-burnt, but that's nothing compared to the masses of freckles smattered across Sam's nose and cheeks that certainly weren't there this morning.

The game ends when a huge woman appears from the back of the garage, and hollers at them and the kids scatter, clapping Sam on the back and saluting him as the pelt off down the sidewalk back home.

Dean slides off the car as Sam lopes over, grin so wide it's damn near breaking his face.

 _That was fun_ Sam signs, and promptly drops into the dust to pull his sneakers back on. At some point Sam's opponents had decided that his shoes were an unfair advantage, and had made him take them off.

Hadn't done the damnedest thing to Sam's soccer abilities, but his feet were as black as if he'd been running on coal.

Dean waits until Sam’s done his laces, and then grabs his sweaty hand to haul him to his feet.

Sam winces a little as he stands, shakes his legs out. His feet probably sting. God knows what kind of glass and shit is hidden in the dirt. Dean will get the med kit out when they get back and have a look at them.

Sam catches Dean’s eye, smile lightning fast.

He mimes getting a piggyback, flutters his eyelashes.

Dean rolls his eyes. _You so did not just ask me that._

Sam makes his eyes big and round.

Dean sighs, but turns round and bends his knees so Sam can hop up. It isn’t exactly comfortable, Sam is scrawny as hell, all elbows and knees and sharp hipbones, but Dean deals (Dean deals with a lot and this isn’t exactly on his top 10 list of hardships) and sets off walking.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam nods off, forehead tucked into Dean’s neck, three and a half blocks away from the motel.

There's a couple of things from Dean's days with Sam as a pre-teen, skinny-as-a-weed, ridiculously dorky kid that he kinda misses sometimes.

Sam will always be his deaf kid of course, his to look out for and look after and sign to and shout at even if he can't hear and squeeze the living day lights out of in a hug when he does something fucking stupid like _nearly getting himself killed goddammit._

But yeah, some stuff he feels pretty nostalgic about.

Days when John drove from sunrise to sunset and the only stops were gas breaks and Sam and Dean leant their backs against the doors and crossed their legs up on the backseat so they could face each other, and they'd pass away the hours making up new signs for cuss words, or name-signs for the freaky people John was friends with like _fish breath_ or _diseased toe dude_ , or signs for inexplicable, useless things, like that weird swooping feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you go over a small bridge too quickly. And when they got tired of that and Dean got tired of signing along to the songs John was playing so Sam could put words to the vibrations he could feel through the seats, and Sam got tired of reading cause he went a little green, Sam would stretch out his stupidly long, skinny-weed, sun-browned legs over the seat, and put his head in Dean's lap if John was in a good mood or on the middle seat if he wasn't, dark eyes eyeing them in the rear-view mirror. From there, Sam would watch the dying colours of the sun flicker over the car ceiling, or else play idly with Dean's fingers or make Dean sign the things he could hear, a constant monologue, really inane shit like _birds_ or _tractor_ or _plane overhead_ or _Dad farting_ and Sam would snigger and sputter and laugh and laugh because like hell did Dean need to tell him that, it was like a fucking _gas_ _attack_.

Days when they spent hot, sticky evenings in a stagnant cinema screen room watching Jurassic Park for the eighty gazzillionth time because Sam is majorly boring like that and, yeah, Dean liked it too enough first time round, but Sam can sit through the same shit till the end of time. They'd always grab the back row seats, Dean effectively shoving off the other wannabe rebels with one dark look, because then no one was behind them to mind when Dean held up his hands, silhouetted against the screen, to sign the dialogue so Sam could hear and watch at the same time. Most of the time Dean made up the words, threw in some random nonsense that was totally out of place in the sickly rom com moment at the end (and _oh my god Sam_ , I can't believe you like this crap how are we even _related_ ) but it'd be worth it, the whole damn thing would be worth it for when Sam started snickering next to Dean in the dark, sometimes too loud so that other people would look round with significant, irritated huffs, and you know what, fuck you, because hell if Dean was gonna care about your problems when his kid was happy giggling away like this was the best time of his shitty life. In the Beginning there was Sammy, okay? And that’s the way it was always going to be.

 


End file.
